


A Matter Of Time

by PrinceSircastic



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Developing Relationship, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-25 16:53:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6203302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrinceSircastic/pseuds/PrinceSircastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forced to spend three weeks living in his absent father's manor house with his infuriating twin brother, David wants nothing more than to be somewhere - anywhere - else. Exploring the house, he stumbles upon a door that won't open, though no one seems to know why. One day, in an attempt to escape James, he tries the handle - and the door opens, and David steps out into the old Jones' manor house. Unknowingly, David has travelled many years into the past, and finds himself coming face to face with Killian, the Lord's youngest son. </p>
<p>Split between two times, the boys spark an instant friendship - but what will happen as the years pass by? And what future do they have, when Killian's future is David's past?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a /slow burn/ fic - they're literally /boys/ when they meet, so they'll start as friends, then slowly develop feelings, until they finally act upon them. But don't be disheartened! There are some pretty big timeskips in the plot further along (we're talking the span of years here), so it might happen sooner than you think! 
> 
> As for when or where this is set, I'm deliberately not giving dates or locations. It's AU for a reason. Who says this is even our world? Exactly. 
> 
> Also as a final note - updates may not be regular. I'm a student, and a carer and I'm also shamelessly addicted to rp, so I don't have a lot of time to get to things like fics. I'll do my best, but I make no promises. Sorry!

David Nolan led a _good_ life, at least in his own opinion. He was blessed with a good home, a loving mother, and enough intelligence to allow him to get through school with ease. He was well-liked all round – he was polite and respectful, a good-natured boy with a kind heart. He _always_ did as he was asked, and very rarely put a foot out of line, boasting the fact he had never _once_ been in detention at school. Which was why he couldn't understand _why_ he was being _punished_ like this. 

Sitting in the passenger seat of his mother's car, chin resting in his hand, he stared glumly out of the window at the passing scenery, wishing she would change her mind and turn the car around before it was too late, telling him that perhaps he could go with her after all. He'd been looking forward to spending the holiday with his friends, taking day trips with his mother, and _writing_ in his treehouse in the yard. Instead, he was being _forced_ to spend the next few weeks with complete _strangers_ – or, at least, that's what it felt like. All because his grandmother was _sick_ and there was only room for his mother at their house. 

"Cheer up, David." The soft, kindly voice of his mother wasn't enough to draw his eye from the landscape rushing past as they drove down empty country roads. Ruth glanced across at her son, wishing in her heart that she could take him with her – but the house was _tiny_ and his grandmother was too sick to take on the effort needed to entertain a thirteen year old boy, no matter how well behaved he was. "It's only for a few weeks." When she received no response, she sighed. He'd been sulking ever since he got in the car – actually, he'd been sulking ever since she told him their plans for the holiday had changed, but he'd had the grace to mostly hide it until _today_. "Aren't you looking forward to seeing your brother?" 

Her parents had _greatly_ disapproved of her relationship with George King, but she had been young and rebellious and, as she now knew, incredibly _foolish_. She had loved him once, of course, and she had no doubt in her mind that he had loved her, too – but theirs was a relationship doomed for failure, and it had reached its ultimate end when she'd told him she was pregnant. To the man's credit, though their romantic relationship was over, he stood by her through the months of her pregnancy, supporting her decision to have the baby – _babies_ , as they'd later discovered – despite the urging of both their families against it. As it turned out, he was as eager to be a father as she was to be a mother. 

She couldn't quite remember _whose_ idea it was, once they learned they'd be having twins, to separate the babies once they were born, but she was fairly certain it had been his. She _loathed_ the idea of giving up one of her children, but George had promised that she would be welcome to be as big a part of the child's life as she wished, and as they lived within a fair distance of one another, he'd reassured her that she _would_ see her child as often as she liked. Knowing she couldn't support two babies by herself, even with the help of her mother, she had agreed that George would raise one, and she the other. 

Their twin boys stayed with her a week whilst George made final arrangements at home, and then Ruth parted from her eldest with tears in her eyes and a promise in her heart that she would make every effort possible to spend as much time with her son as she could. Working and raising a child, however, took up most of her time, and she only managed to snatch a few weekends and holidays here and there for the first few years. George, for his part, played a good, if somewhat absent, father. She received regular payments of money which she used to buy David's clothes and shoes, his toys and books – and when it came to it, George paid for his son's education, too. Whilst he rarely made it in person, he never missed a birthday or Christmas, and he had even turned up once to a game when David had joined the basketball team. 

Despite all that, David spent very little time with his father and twin brother – James went to a different school, and George often travelled for work. The whole family had never been in a room together since the boys were very young. 

"No." David muttered, still staring out the window, his entire posture sullen and _defeated_. "Or George." David's insistence on calling his father by his name was a tactic to maintain a level of distance between them, she knew. Whilst acknowledging that the man was, in fact, his father, David had never really seen him as such – he was just the man who had helped bring him into the world, and who sent him a card every year with a generous amount of money tucked inside it. "And I don't want to spend the holiday in their stupid house." 

"David, we've been through this," there was a touch of frustration in her voice now, and she paused to reel it back in, "and you know you cannot come with me. Grandma is very sick and needs me to take care of her for a while, and there simply isn't room to house a teenage boy too. Your father was very kind in agreeing to have you stay with him. You know he is a busy man." She would never say it aloud, but she had been incredibly surprised when he had accepted her request for him to take David for a few weeks. He was known for using his work as an excuse not to come over, or take his son for a weekend, and she had fully expected to be fed a line about being swamped in paperwork and unable to take on the needs of a second teenage boy at such short notice. "You know I would love to take you with me, but it simply isn't possible. Not this time." 

"Robin's family are going camping." David heaved a sigh, the disappointment clear in his voice. "They said I could go with them for a few days, if I wanted. They're going to fish, too, and sing songs around the campfire." 

"Maybe you can go with them next time." The Locksley family had been their neighbours for seven years, and the boys had become instant friends when they'd moved in. She knew David was almost certainly most upset about leaving behind his best friend, even if it was only for a few weeks. "Just think about all the fun you can have at your father's! He has a big house and a lot of land – perhaps you and James can go camping for a couple of days?" 

"I don't want to go camping with _James_." Sighing again, David finally turned from the window, recognising the road they were now turning onto. At the end of this road was the long driveway that led up to the manor house owned by his father. During the few moments he had spent with his twin brother, he'd never _really_ gotten along with him – though they were twins and identical in appearance, that was where their similarities _ended_. He really wasn't looking forward to spending his holiday in the same house as his brother. 

As they began the drive up to the house, David knew there was no chance his mother was going to change her mind, not now. Slumping in his seat, he resigned himself to three weeks of _hell_ , stuck out in what felt like the middle of _nowhere_ with only his twin brother, estranged father, and their _staff_ for company. If he wasn't in such a foul mood, he might have appreciated the scene before him as the house came into view – it was an old building, he knew, part of an old estate that had been in the hands of a wealthy family for many generations, before it was sold and eventually ended up in the hands of the King family. 

The grounds were as beautiful as the house, stretching for as far as the eye could see, including acres of land and even a _lake_. The first time David had visited, he had felt incredibly jealous of his brother for getting to grow up here – but he would never swap his town home with his mother for the _world_. He didn't want to admit it, but as much as he loved his treehouse, the manor would be a _much_ better place for writing, and would surely provide him with some much-needed inspiration. Perhaps, he mused, there was _some_ good in this arrangement, after all. 

He was silent as they pulled up, and he remained as such as his mother pulled his suitcase from the car and led the way up to the front door. As though they were expected – which, David mused, they probably _were_ – the door opened as they reached it, and David got the first proper look at his father in over a year. Even at home George dressed in a three-piece suit, perfectly pressed and sharp, his shoes shiny enough to see your reflection in them. 

"Ruth." There was warmth in his voice as he greeted them, and he even went as far as to pull her into a brief one-arm embrace, lips brushing her cheek. "It's good to see you." Pulling back, his attention quickly shifted to David, the smile on his face quite possibly a _genuine_ one. "And David. My, lad, you've grown some since last I saw you." 

"Hi." Ever the polite gentleman, David bit back his comment about _why_ that was, extending his hand for a formal handshake. He did _not_ want a hug. George indulged him, at least, giving his hand a brief but firm shake. 

"Come on in, Michaels will take your case up to your room for you." The suitcase was quickly plucked from his mother's grasp by a beanpole of a man dressed impeccably in a black suit, who gave them a warm, friendly smile before turning for the staircase. "Do you have time to stop for tea? I'm sure James would like to see you." 

"I'm sure I have time for a cup of tea, yes." Ruth occasionally saw the young man she had fallen for, all those years ago – and it was usually in moments like this one. George wasn't a _bad_ man, she reminded herself, even if he wasn't around for David as much as she would have liked. "Where is my dear James?" George waved a hand at the young woman dressed as smartly as Michaels who had stepped forward from seemingly nowhere, and with a nod she hurried off as quickly as she had appeared. 

"Up in his room, I do believe." He crossed to the foot of the staircase, glancing up at the floor above. "James! Come down for a moment, son!" _Son_. David felt a nerve in his jaw twitch, and he had to stuff his hands into his pockets to stop his fists from clenching. Not _once_ had he ever heard George call _him_ son. "Shall we go through to the sitting room?" With a flourish of one hand, George led the way into a grand room with plush sofas situated around a large, ornate coffee table. Looking around, David could easily imagine what this room had been like in the hands of the wealthy family it had been built for – the TV upon one wall disappeared, replaced instead by a beautiful portrait of the master of the house, gaslights replacing the electric ones, a fire burning in the fireplace, and candles flickering in the chandelier. 

Ruth and George took seats on opposite sides of the coffee table, and David moved to perch awkwardly on the edge of the cushion beside his mother. He had only been here once or twice before, and he never truly felt _comfortable_. He tuned out the idle conversation his parents were engaged in, his attention still focused on imagining the room as it _used_ to be, his imagination running wild to make up for his lack of interest in adult conversation. He was snapped back to reality when the woman from before arrived with a tray of tea and biscuits, which she offered to _him_ first. Smiling, he accepted one gratefully, making sure to thank her politely. 

"So, David, your mother tells me you're quite the scholar?" George was still smiling, though David felt like it might be a little _forced_ for his mother's benefit. "And that you're into writing?" 

"Yes, that's right." He had to stop himself from adding _sir_ , even though it almost felt _necessary_. "I want to teach English when I'm older." Ruth's smile _was_ genuine, and she patted her son's knee fondly. 

"It's all he talks about these days – becoming a teacher." She lifted her hand to brush her fingers through his hair. God, she would _miss_ him whilst he was here. "That and writing a book, perhaps." 

"Well, I'm sure you'll find plenty of inspiration here." George gestured with one hand to the room around them. "This house has many stories to tell, as I'm sure you'll find. Feel free to wander as you like, so long as you take care not to damage anything. I only ask that you stay clear of my office – not even James is allowed in there, though I can't see why there'd be anything of interest for a boy in there." He paused as the door opened once more, and David turned, looking upon his brother for the first time in _years_. 

James was, of course, an almost perfect mirror image to himself – his hair was a little shorter, but beyond that they were still very much the identical twins they had always been. Like David, and unlike their father, he was dressed casually in jeans and a t-shirt, though he wore expensive leather boots to David's well-worn Converse. Ruth rose instantly to envelop James in a hug which he _seemed_ to enjoy, and he didn't even protest when she insisted on kissing _both_ cheeks. 

"Hi, Ruth." Like David, he referred to his mother by her name – _unlike_ David, he said it with _warmth_. Grabbing a biscuit from the tray on the coffee table, he moved to drop onto the sofa beside his father, leaning back against the plush cushions with far more ease and comfort than David could even _hope_ to achieve, kicking his feet up onto the table. Instantly George frowned, and pushed them off again. Now sitting across from each other, the twins held each other's gaze for a moment – and then James grinned. "Dave." 

"It's _David_." He shot back, forcing a smile onto his face to counter the sting of his words. Knowing her son well enough, Ruth immediately cut in with a question, distracting from David's discomfort by asking after James' wellbeing. Nibbling on his biscuit, David tuned them out again, offering only noncommittal sounds whenever he was asked a question. 

The moment he was dreading finally arrived, and he found himself standing on the front step of the manor house with a hand lifted in a wave as his mother drove away back down the driveway, his last chance of escape disappearing off into the distance. _It's just three weeks_ , he told himself, watching the road long after her car had vanished from sight, _just three weeks. You can survive three weeks here, David._  

"James, why don't you give your brother a proper tour, hm? I have some paperwork I need to finish up." And then the door was closing behind him, and George was heading for the staircase. With a heavy heart, David turned to his brother, who stood with hands in pockets, a faint smile on his face. 

"C'mon then, _Dave_ ," he _drawled_ the nickname deliberately, knowing it would get under his brother's skin, "let me show you the house." Turning on the heel of his expensive boots, James took long strides towards the hallway at the back of the entrance hall, a confident swagger to his steps that _irked_ David for reasons unknown. Following reluctantly after his twin, David sighed inwardly. 

He was really going to _hate_ it here. 

* 

It had only been three days, and David already wanted to go home. It wasn't his father – George was fairly pleasant, to his surprise, though he spent a lot of time at work or in his office, and he only really saw him in the morning at breakfast, and then again in the evening for dinner. The staff, too, were all very nice and welcoming, and were probably the only reason he hadn't already called his mother _begging_ for her to come and get him. The house was a _delight_ , and he had spent the first two days exploring the different floors, wandering through the many rooms whilst imagining he was the son of a wealthy Lord, and this was _his_ estate to inherit. 

It was _James_ that was the problem. His brother was a complete pain in the ass, insufferable and _annoying_ , with a habit of _deliberately_ trying to get under his skin and wind him up. Wandering the house was his way of getting some _peace_ , as James seemed to be everywhere and anywhere, and even hiding away in his room didn't seem to work – James would be at his door within minutes, hammering upon it loudly before bursting into the room to _bother_ him. He talked _incessantly_ , too – about _everything_ , and most of it was _boasting_. He was proving to be nothing more than a headache. 

Idly strolling upon the top floor of the house, David let his hand trail along the panelled wall of the hallway, humming softly to himself under his breath as he walked. He preferred it up here, where it was quieter – and not least of all because James _rarely_ came up here. There was nothing really of interest in terms of the rooms, as most of them were empty or used for storage, and since George hadn't told him otherwise, David intended to go through them one at a time in search of old items or pieces of the manor's history. Turning a corner, David paused in his humming and stopped in his tracks, realising he'd come to the end of the hallway – and the mysterious door he'd discovered on his first exploration of the house. 

It was just like any other door, with nothing special about it at all. There were no markings or designs upon it – just a dark wood door with an antique gold handle, and a splinter of wood chipped away in the right-hand panel. On his first journey through this floor, he had tried every single door, making a note of each room as he went, until he had reached this one, right at the very end of the hallway. When the handle hadn't budged, he'd assumed it was locked, and reminded himself to ask James or one of the staff about it when he found the time. He'd run into James first, of course, and his brother had shrugged and told him the door hadn't been opened for as long as he could remember, and had seemed otherwise disinterested in the room beyond. 

Michaels, however, had been of far more help to him. The man was incredibly good-natured, and happily sat down with him over tea to tell him of the room at the end of the top floor corridor. He had come to the manor to take over his father's job when he retired, and so his knowledge extended back to when it had been George's father in possession of the house, and David discovered, to his surprise, that the door on the top floor had _never_ been opened. The skeleton key Michaels and his father had access to had not opened it, nor had any amount of pushing or shoving, and at one time a carpenter had been called out to take a look at it – but to no avail. The door, it seemed, was sealed shut forever, though the cause wasn't entirely clear. 

Of course, such a mystery had appealed to David instantly, and his imagination had run _wild_ that evening as he finally earned some peace in his bedroom. He'd flipped open his notebook and scribbled down the ideas that had come to him in a rush, his pen flying across the page. He'd told his mother about it when she'd called to see how he was doing, and shared with her some of the ideas he'd had about why it was shut, and _how_. She had laughed and told him his imagination was a truly wonderful place to be, and then the conversation had moved to the topic of his grandmother, and he'd pushed his thoughts about the door to the back of his mind. 

Facing it now, he remembered again the ideas and scenarios he'd thought up, and he hurried towards the door, shoes making no sound against the plush carpet beneath them. Pressing both hands to the plain wood, he stared at the door as though _willing_ it to share its secrets, his fingertips finding the missing chunk of wood in the one panel. Despite knowing the handle wouldn't turn, his curiosity won over, and he tried it again – but it held firm, as he had known it would. Sighing heavily, he turned until his back rested against the solid wood, tipping his head back as he closed his eyes. 

"You're as stuck as I am, huh?" He murmured aloud, not caring how _foolish_ talking to a door might sound if anyone could hear. "Stuck in this house." He dragged a hand through his hair, sighing again, softly this time. "I wish I wasn't here," he admitted to the silent hallway, "I wish I was _anywhere_ but here. I just want to be somewhere else… just to _get away_." He missed his mother, his friends, his _bed_. He wanted nothing more than to curl up with his blankets and listen to his mother singing as she baked cookies, or to play video games with Robin or spend nights up in his treehouse watching the stars. He missed _home_. 

Knowing he still had weeks ahead, he told himself to get a grip and just make the most out of his time here – he could take his books down to the lake and read beside the water, maybe even try to write something, or just enjoy being out amongst nature. Maybe he could even take out one of the boats, if old William was around to help. Shifting, his fingers curled around the handle as he pushed away from the door – and he felt it _move_. Freezing in place, David told himself he had imagined it, that there was no _possible_ way the handle had _moved_. It had been stuck for decades, possibly more – why would that suddenly change? 

Despite the common sense that told him to just walk away and forget about it, his feet were rooted to the carpet, his whole body tense. _Just try the handle once, it won't hurt_. Anticipation coiling in his gut, he forced himself to take a few slow, even breaths – and then he gripped the handle, and pushed _down_. For a moment it didn't move, and he began to doubt it had _ever_ moved, that it was just something he imagined out of wishful thinking, but then his heart leapt into his throat as the handle _groaned_ with the movement, and the door clicked open behind him. 

Heart hammering in his chest, David slowly turned on the spot, not once taking his fingers from the handle for fear that the door would slam shut again and refuse to budge. A shiver ran the length of his spine at the sight of the door ajar in its frame, of the antique handle bent beneath his hand. _It was open_. A rush of emotions hit him at once, confusing and disorientating, a mixture of _delight_ and curiosity, of nerves and, very faintly, _fear_. What lay beyond? Why had the door suddenly opened after so many years of being sealed shut? Did he go in, or did he turn back? 

The decision was ultimately made for him when he heard the familiar drawl of James' voice from somewhere behind him, far enough away to be from the floor below, but close enough to tell David that his twin was surely at the foot of the staircase leading to _this_ floor. If James came looking for him, he would have to share the discovery with his brother, and no doubt James would claim the discovery as his _own_. He didn't _want_ to share this with James – not _yet_ , at least. Not until he had explored by himself, and discovered the door's secrets alone. Worried that James would surely ascend the stairs any minute now, he drew in a deep breath, and pushed open the door, stepping into the room beyond. 

He closed the door behind him, pushing aside the brief flicker of worry that he might not be able to open it again from this side, shutting off the sound of James' voice at last. Satisfied that his brother would not find him, nor think to try the handle if he _did_ come looking, David grinned to himself, and turned his attention to the mysterious room that had taken root so deeply in his thoughts. He had imagined all sorts of theories about what lay beyond – a room full of treasures, of gold and diamonds and ancient artefacts worth more than the estate itself, or an old library filled with rare books, or a gallery of original paintings from famous artists, believed to be lost forever, stuck behind a door that would never open. What actually lay before him was nothing quite as impressive – an empty bookcase sat in one corner, a grandfather clock in another, and a couple of pieces of furniture covered with sheets to protect them from dust took up another wall. The floor was bare wood, and an old ships wheel leant against the remaining wall, beneath a little window that let in the only light in the room. 

Disappointed to find the room was fairly plain and mostly empty, David sighed. The only things of any real interest to him were the ships wheel and the grandfather clock, and after a minute or two of close inspection, there was really nothing more for him to see, and certainly no reason to linger any longer, even if he wanted to escape James. He crossed to the door, listening for a moment for his brother's footsteps, or his _irritating_ voice. When he heard nothing for at least a minute, he reasoned that James had moved on, and he curled his fingers around the handle, praying that the door hadn't got _stuck_ again. Relief flooded him as the handle moved with ease, and he grinned again as he pulled the door open- 

-and his grin froze in place. _Something_ wasn't quite right about the hallway that stretched out before him. It took him a moment to place it, for everything _looked_ the same, but then his sharp mind picked out the finer details that he had missed at first glance. The carpet was a richer colour, and covered with fine rugs, no doubt to protect it from wear. The walls, still panelled, were painted a dark blue along the bottom, and a crisp, clean white along the top – unlike the brown and off-white he remembered. Small, quaint pots of flowers sat along the sill of the nearest window, and there was a sweet scent in the air that he couldn't quite place. 

"What the…" Confused and wary, David stepped out onto the plush carpet, leaving the door open behind him. "James?" He called for his brother cautiously, as though expecting this to be some sort of elaborate prank of his. His rational mind told him that was stupid – there was no way James had _repainted_ the walls, lay down rugs, and put out flowers in the time he'd been inside the room – but he could think of no other reason why everything would be _different_. He made his way carefully back down the hallway, heading for the staircase, glancing at the other doors as he passed by. 

One door was slightly ajar, and knowing it hadn't been on his way up, he stepped closer to peer into the room beyond. This room, he remembered, had been used for storage, just a collection of boxes and some old unused furniture stacked neatly against the wall – but what he saw didn't line up with his memory. A bed was pushed against one wall, a little table beside it bearing an old gas lamp and a book, and a chair sat nearby with a set of neatly folded pyjamas upon the seat. Blood pounding in his head, heart racing, David pushed on, listening out for the sound of anyone approaching. 

_What the hell was that room? This is the same house, and yet… it's so different. How is this even possible?_ Swiping his tongue across suddenly dry lips, David slowed his steps as he approached the staircase, not sure if he should descend – or if he even _wanted_ to. If the top floor of the house was different, what would the _rest_ be like? And where was _James_? His fingers gripped the handrail at the top of the stairs, and he summoned his courage to take the first step _down_. As soon as his shoe touched the carpeted stair, he heard raised voices from somewhere below, just loud enough for him to be able to pick out what was being said. The voices were foreign to him, definitely not belonging to any of George's staff or George himself, and _certainly_ not his brother's. Curious, he forgot all caution, and crept further down the staircase to better hear the shouted conversation. 

"Father!" The first voice belonged to a boy, he was sure, and from the sound of it probably about his age – not yet deep enough to belong to an older boy, yet containing the telltale crack of puberty. There was an odd _lilt_ to the voice, too – an almost _musical_ tone. "This is not fair! I am almost a _man_!" 

"You are a man when _I_ say you are a man." The second voice was much older, far deeper and rougher than the first, though David had expected as such. This was surely the 'Father' the boy had called to. Like the boy's voice, the man's held the same pleasant lilt. "And not a moment sooner. Do you understand me?" 

"I simply do not see why _Liam_ is allowed to sail alone, and _I_ am not!" The frustration was evident in the boy's voice, and David almost smiled. It reminded him of the time when he had wanted to ride his bike without the training wheels, and his mother had told him he wasn't yet ready to do so. "Liam is not _that_ much older than me." 

"Liam is sixteen, and has proven himself capable. He is mature enough to take command." There was a pause, in which David could imagine the older man regarding his son with the same look his mother gave him when he was causing a fuss. "And he certainly does not throw _tantrums_ when he does not get his way." 

"But father-," 

" _Killian_." The name was barked with a severity that had David flinching back against the stairs, even though he was out of sight. "Go on up to your room, and do not come down again until supper." There was a moment of silence, and then the sound of running footsteps on stairs down below. Suddenly remembering where he was, David felt a flicker of panic, and he shrank down behind the banister quickly, hoping that the boy's room was located on the floor below, as they were in George's house. If he started to ascend to the top floor… he would make it to one of the rooms if he ran, he calculated quickly, but then that posed another concern – what if the room he chose wasn't _empty_? 

Luck was on his side, it seemed, as the running footsteps came closer, and through the gaps in the banister he watched as a boy around his age stomped along the hallway below, passing by the bottom of the staircase with no obvious intent to climb it. David caught a glimpse of a slender frame in clothing that, whilst somewhat casual, was evidently made of finer fabrics, and a head of unruly dark hair, before the boy disappeared from sight. The sound of a door slamming shut followed after a moment, and he caught the murmurs of muffled voices from deeper within the house. 

_You've seen enough, David. It's time to go._ Still not entirely sure _what_ he was seeing, he turned and hurried back up the stairs, praying that he didn't run into anyone along the way. He didn't have to be a genius to put two and two together – the changes to the interior of the house, the simple bedroom he had seen through the open door, the unfamiliar voices with their strange, lilting accents, and the boy dressed in clothing from a time long past told him one very clear thing. 

Somehow, he was in the _past_. 

It was the only explanation he could think of, though he didn't know _how_ it was possible. It _had_ to be connected to the room with the door that wouldn't open, the door that _had_ opened under his touch. His shoes made no sound as he raced back down the hallway, and it was with relief that he turned the corner and saw the door at the end of the hall with its antique gold handle and chipped right panel. Hurrying towards it, he noticed that the handle didn't look _quite_ so antique here, and the chip in the panel seemed much fresher, as though done fairly recently. Hearing voices growing louder behind him, he crossed his fingers for luck, and tried the door. 

It _opened_. 

Relieved, David hurried through, being sure to close it _quietly_ behind him, just in case. This time, the room he stepped into was very different to the one he had left – the bookcase was still there, only here its shelves were lined with books and a few little trinkets. The grandfather clock was missing from the corner, but there was a grand desk against one wall that David was sure lived under a sheet back in George's house. The floor, like the room he remembered, was bare wood, but spread atop it was a rug woven to resemble a map that David didn't recognise. The ships wheel that had sat beneath the little window was instead hung in pride of place upon the wall, and a piece of rigging hung across the window. 

Wanting to explore some more, and inspect the books on the shelves, but knowing there was a chance someone might come in at any moment, David turned away from the temptation of the room, and placed his hand once more upon the handle. He took a few slow, even breaths, hoping that when he opened the door again he would find himself back where he _belonged_ – although there was a part of him that hoped _otherwise_. The idea of travelling into the past was _exciting_ , if not a little frightening, and he _longed_ to explore the house some more. Counting down from three in his head, he turned the handle, closing his eyes as he carefully opened the door. 

The first thing he noticed was the sweet scent missing from the air, and it was enough to cause him to crack open one eye. He was met with brown and off-white walls, carpeted floors without rugs, and an empty sill where once had stood pots of flowers. Glancing over his shoulder, the room was once again mostly empty, the grandfather clock sitting in the corner once more. The second thing he noticed about the house beyond the room was the voice calling, and the footsteps gradually approaching. _James_. 

He hurried through the door, pulling it closed behind him, hoping that the door wouldn't seal itself shut again, to be stuck forever. How long had he been in there? Was James searching for him because he had been missing for some time? It felt like an _hour_ had passed since he first stepped through that mysterious door, but it might have been only minutes. Glancing down at the watch on his wrist, David's eyebrows lifted – he couldn't be _entirely_ sure, as he hadn't looked at the time before taking his magical trip into the past, but it seemed as though no time _at all_ had passed. It was as though he hadn't gone anywhere _at all_. 

"Dave?" He looked up at the sound of his name – or, to be precise, the nickname James had given him despite his _protests_ – and met the eyes of his twin. "The hell you doing up here?" David almost opened his mouth to tell James about his adventure, so excited to tell _someone_ that he didn't even care if it was his _infuriating_ brother, but he caught himself before he could say a word. James wouldn't believe him, anyway. 

"Nothing." He shrugged, adopting an air of nonchalance as he slipped his hands into his pockets. "Just wandering around, thinking." James quirked a brow, glancing over his brother's shoulder at the door he stood in front of. 

"Not that door again." He sighed, rolling his eyes. "It's just a door that doesn't open. You don't think I've tried to get in? It's _stuck_." David's fingers itched to try the handle again, which was all the more reason for keeping them in his pockets where he could control the temptation. "C'mon. Michaels is driving us into town. Dad left us some money to go see a movie or something. I don't care what." James turned, expecting David to follow him – and after a moment's hesitation, he did. Before following his brother around the corner, David glanced back at the door with its chipped panel, and felt a thrill of excitement. He thought of the house he had seen, and the boy so eager to sail alone, and he grinned. 

_It'll be our little secret_. _For now._


	2. Chapter 2

"So what did you boys get up to today?" David looked up from where he'd been poking at his dinner, wishing it was his mother's cooking, and glanced over at his father. George had only walked through the door half an hour before they'd been called down for dinner, and this was the first time he'd seen him since he'd left that morning. It made him wonder just how much James actually saw their father, and how much time he spent alone in the house when he wasn't being driven around by Michaels. Did James have whole weekends with his father – mornings spent watched old kids cartoons they'd seen a thousand times before, picnics for lunch in the park, evenings on the couch with popcorn, snacks and a movie? Somehow, David doubted that. 

"Michaels took us into town." James told him around a mouthful of food. "We saw that new movie – y'know the one I told you about?" George made a noncommittal sound, waving a hand in response. "And Dave's been wandering the house aimlessly pretty much all day." 

"It's a big house. A lot to look at." George murmured, his gaze briefly landing on David. "You should take him out to the lake, James. If William's around you could take out the boat." 

"You have a boat?" David thought back to the boy he'd seen, the boy who wanted to sail, and he didn't realise he was smiling until James quirked an eyebrow at him from across the table. "I mean… I know there's a boathouse. I just… didn't know if it was in use." 

"Of _course_ we have a boat." James muttered, rolling his eyes. George sent him a look that had his twin sighing, and focusing once more on eating. When George changed the subject to his work, David found himself tuning out, his thoughts turning to the room on the top floor, and what had been on the other side of the door. He was so caught up in his own thoughts that he only realised dinner was over when the sound of the dining room door closing snapped him back to the moment. 

Excusing himself from James' company – and hoping his brother wouldn't _follow_ him – he hurried up to his room and dropped down onto the bed, reaching for his notebook. Grabbing a pen he scrawled out everything he could remember from the house he had entered, the house from the _past_ , and the boy he had caught a glimpse of. _Killian_ , the man had called him. It was an interesting name, not one he had heard before. He made a little note in the margin of his notebook to look up the name later – or ask one of the older members of the staff if they knew anything about the name. He was just finishing up the notes on the room with the ship's wheel from the past when his phone buzzed on his desk, and he couldn't stop the smile from crossing his face, knowing it was surely his mother calling – glancing at the caller ID, his assumption was confirmed. 

"Hi mom." He fell back onto the bed, stretching out on his back to look up at the ceiling, instantly soothed by his mother's voice. "How's grandma?" 

_"She's doing well. How has it been at your father's? Are you and James getting along?"_ David hesitated for a moment before he answered – he didn't want her to feel guilty for leaving him here, but he also didn't want to _lie_ to his mother. 

"It's… different. The house is nice, and the staff are great. I still don't get why George has _staff_ , but it's a big place so I guess he needs them." And, he supposed, that meant James had _some_ company whilst his father was at work. "And James… yeah, I suppose we get along. We're kinda different people though." 

_"That's not surprising, really. You've had different lifestyles. I just hope you're having fun_." David hesitated before he answered her, debating on whether to tell her about the door that had opened for him, and what he'd seen beyond it. It wasn't that he doubted if she'd believe him, though he imagined she would assume it was just his imagination running wild in the old house. He simply didn't know if he wanted to let _anyone_ in on his little secret – at least not until he knew a bit more about what that room was, and where he _went_. 

"The house is interesting. I'm getting a lot of ideas here." He glanced at his notebook, chewing on his bottom lip as he contemplated bringing it up. "Hey, mom? Does this sound realistic?" Shifting, he grabbed the notebook, flicking back to the start of his notes. "A door in an old house that has been stuck forever, sealed shut somehow, and no one has been able to open it for _years_ , but then when someone _does_ get it to open, it somehow transports them to the same house, but several years in the past." 

_"My, that brain of yours really has been busy!"_ There was a pause on the other end as she clearly mulled the idea over in her head. She was his best critic, he'd found, and he _always_ went to her with his ideas. _"It has a lot of potential, and I suppose it's fairly realistic – time travel is, of course, a very popular theme in literature. Where has this come from?"_  

"Just thinking about the house," he lied, skimming the words he'd scrawled upon the pages, "and its history. I was wondering what it was like back when it was still new." The house had to have been fairly recently built, from what he'd seen of its condition. Though the house _now_ still looked in fairly perfect condition, it had the touch of age that no amount of care could fight back. The house he had seen after stepping through the door had felt _new_ – or at least, only a few decades old at the most. 

_"Well you can always look it up on your computer. Or ask your father about it – I'm sure he knows a thing or two. His father was very interested in its history when he bought it, so he might be able to tell you about who it once belonged to."_ David didn't particularly feel like quizzing George about the house. He was still unsure of the man, the absent father who seemed to care more for his work than he did for his children. He _would_ ask Michaels, however, or even Old William, the caretaker. 

"Maybe I will. It's just an idea, anyway." He shrugged it off, sounding casual. He knew as soon as he was off the phone he'd be tempted to boot up the laptop to research the house, but he wanted to wait until he knew James was asleep. His brother would just ask questions if he caught him on the computer. "You're still coming to get me in three weeks, right?" 

_"Yes, David. I'm still coming to get you in three weeks. Try to enjoy yourself, darling, won't you? I'm sure it's not as bad there as you think it is."_ There was another pause, and muffled voices in the background. _"I'm sorry, David, I have to go. I'll speak to you again soon, I promise._ " 

"Alright. Say hi to grandma for me. Love you." He waited to hear the returned sentiment before he clicked off the call with a sigh. He could hear James in his room further down the hall, the sounds of the TV filtering through the walls – _good_. That meant he was occupied, and probably wouldn't venture out again until the morning. Deciding to put aside the internet research for another time, he got himself ready for bed, though he knew his thoughts were far too busy to enable him to sleep any time soon. 

As predicted, he lay in the dark for what felt like _hours_ , simply staring up at the ceiling, his head back in the old house he had stepped into. He _had_ to know more about it. Tossing the sheets back, he rose from his bed and crept to his bedroom door, listening for sounds in the hallway beyond. James' TV had gone silent about an hour before, and the hallway light had clicked off about half an hour after. Knowing there was a chance that switching any lights on would run the risk of waking the other inhabitants of the house, he hurried back to his bed, digging his backpack out from underneath it. 

When his mother had reminded him of the vast acres of land and forest that stretched around George's house, he had packed a torch in case he ever went exploring at night – but it would serve equal use for creeping around the house, too. Torch in hand, he crept back to the door and listened once more, just to be safe. When there was nothing but silence on the other side, he carefully turned the handle and stepped out into the dark hallway beyond. He pulled his bedroom door shut behind him, wincing at the sound of the click, amazed at how the silence of the house made it seem so much _louder_. In the dark, he scanned the hallway quickly – there was a sliver of light under the door that led to George's office, which meant his father was still working in there. 

Luckily, the staircase that led up to the top floor was in the other direction, so he wouldn't need to sneak past the door. He doubted George would care much if he was sneaking around the house at night, but he didn't want him to ask any questions. Carefully, his bare feet making no sound on the plush carpet, he made his way down towards the staircase, feeling his way along the wall as he went. A light was always left on downstairs to softly illuminate the bottom of the stairs and the door that led through to the kitchen, and it filtered up as a faint glow. Stepping up onto the first stair, David clicked on his torch to avoid tripping up them, and then hurried up to the top floor. 

The only light upon the top floor came from the window at one end of the hallway, a pale square of moonlight stretching across the carpet. Feeling the faintest thrill of excitement, he guided the beam of his torch towards the other end of the hallway, creeping along past closed doors and empty rooms towards the corner. Turning, he shone the torch at the door that faced him, hesitating where he stood. How could he even be sure it would work again? What if it took him somewhere else this time? What if he got stuck on the other side? 

Despite the questions and doubts running through his mind, his body moved of its own accord, carrying him down the last stretch of hall until he stood before the door, the beam of his torch illuminating the handle. Switching the torch to his other hand, he reached for the handle – and then stopped, shining the light upon the face of his watch. _00:43_. Making a note of the time, he drew in a breath, and then closed his fingers around the handle. At first he didn't think it would budge, but then it gave in beneath the weight of his hand, and the door clicked open silently. Heart pounding in his chest, David pushed through into the room beyond, the light of his torch sweeping across the empty bookcase, the ships wheel, the covered furniture, as he turned to close the door behind him. 

"So far, so good." He murmured to himself, his voice startlingly loud in the utter silence of the room. Before he tried the door again, he crossed to the little window, peering out into the night. From here he could see the lake, and the silhouette of the boathouse, but nothing more. "Alright. Let's see what's on the other side." Stepping back up to the door, he curled his fingers around the handle, counting down from five in his head before he carefully turned it, and tugged the door open a fraction. 

He peered through the crack in the door, a grin stretching across his face as he took in the sight of a solitary candle burning on a windowsill decorated with little pots of flowers, and decorative rugs covering plush carpet. _Just as it was before_. The house was as silent as the one he had come from, and he slipped through the door as quietly as he could. He remembered the rooms he had seen on his first visit, and knew they must surely be _occupied_ at this hour – and with that in mind, he covered the beam of his torch with his hand, only allowing a sliver of light to escape as he began to pad his way down the hallway. There was a chill to the air that George's house hadn't had, and he regretted not grabbing a sweater to pull on over his thin t-shirt. _No heating, of course._  

Pausing at the top of the stairs, he debated on what his next move should be. He had seen as much of the top floor as he could on his earlier visit, and he was more curious about the rest of the house – but how far did he dare explore? It was clear from the hour, and from the silence of the house, that the occupants were surely all tucked up in bed, which gave him more freedom to roam, but he knew _nothing_ about what he might find below. What if the family had a dog? He didn't want to think about what could happen if the master of the house was woken by his dog's warning bark. 

"You've come this far, David." He whispered to himself, standing at the top of the staircase and peering down at the floor below. Another candle burned low on a little table at the foot of the stairs, a guiding light for anyone wandering the house at night. "May as well go down one floor, at least." He took his hand from the light of his torch, shining the beam down onto the steps as he took hold of the rail, inching his way down step by step. He hesitated on the last one, taking in the hallway beyond – the same hallway he had left only minutes before. 

Most of the details were lost in the darkness, and he didn't want to shine the light around too much, but from what he could see the hallway wasn't much different. He imagined the colours of the walls were the same as the top floor, and the paintings upon the walls were not the same as George's, but everything else appeared to be _similar_. He didn't know how long he stood there, not daring to make that final step yet _eager_ to explore, but eventually his curiosity won him over, and he stepped down onto rich, thick carpet. His first instinct took him down the hall towards the door that, in George's house, would take him to his bedroom, and as he looked upon it, he smiled. _Just the same_. 

In the beam of the torch he could pick out the colour of the painted wood – a rich, deep navy – and as he shone the light higher, it picked out a plaque of crisp white, upon which a name was painted with a delicate hand in the same navy as the door. A ships wheel sat at one end of the plague, and a little sailboat at the other, quite obviously hand-painted by a loving hand. Carefully, David lifted a hand and traced the name with a fingertip, his lips curving into a grin. 

"Killian." He breathed out, remembering the boy he had seen for a fleeting moment. Stepping away from the door, he moved further down the hallway to the room that would have been James', finding a similar navy door with an identical white plaque upon it, right down to the ships wheel and sailboat decoration – though the name upon this one read _Liam_ instead. David had no doubt that these were almost certainly made by their mother. His bedroom door back home still bore the hand-painted sign his mother had made for him with the knight astride his valiant steed, sword raised for battle. 

Inching further down, he let his torch shine over the doors as he passed, though the rest were unmarked, until he reached the window at the end, and he peered out into the night. The view was the same as he remembered, the land stretching out into the darkness beyond, the path that he knew wound up and around to the boathouse, and the lake. How far did the estate stretch in this time? Probably much farther than George's land. Standing at the window, he began to get lost in his thoughts, and he _almost_ forgot where he was. When he heard the soft click of a door opening somewhere behind him, his blood turned to ice in panic, and he hurriedly clicked off the torch and ducked down into the corner, making sure not to shadow the moonlight creeping in from the window. 

Judging from the distance, the door that opened was the room marked 'Killian' – and sure enough, a second later, the flickering glow of a candle appeared as the boy stepped out of the room, his footsteps measured and tentative. Pulling the door shut behind him carefully, he turned, lifting the candle to inspect the hallway both left and right, obviously checking no one was around to see him. Were it not for the fear that he would be caught, David might have grinned at how familiar the scene was. Relief washed over him as the boy – Killian – turned away from his end of the hall, and made his way to the staircase that led down into the rest of the house. _You weren't seen. You're safe_. 

Waiting a moment to ensure Killian wouldn't suddenly change his mind and return, David crept from the corner, keeping the torch off so as not to draw attention to himself. He was all the more grateful for his bare feet, even if the chill of the house was biting at his exposed skin, for he made absolutely no sound upon the plush carpet. He just had to make it back to the stairs, and then he could creep back up and out of sight, and be _gone_. He could see the glow of the candle fading as Killian made his way downstairs, and he could hear the faintest sounds of his boots upon the steps. 

_Wait. Boots? Why would he be wearing his boots?_ Though his rational mind told him to ascend and return to his own time, his curiosity carried him past the ascending stairs, and instead took him to the descending stairs. _What are you doing, David? You could get caught – and how would you explain yourself? A strange boy, in strange clothes, where he doesn't belong?_ He didn't know what it was that made him take the first step down, but once he made that first step he knew there was no going back. Descending slowly, keeping tight to the banister to avoid slipping down dark stairs, he followed the soft sounds of boots upon carpet, and the flickering glow of the candle. 

He kept at a safe distance behind Killian, hesitating for a few moments on each step so his movements wouldn't be caught in the corner of an eye, but it soon became clear that Killian was entirely focused on his own task. When the other boy stepped under the glow of the gaslight kept burning in the main hallway, David realised he wasn't dressed for _bed_ – he wore long pants tucked into his boots, a collared shirt beneath a sweater, and a woollen cap pulled down over untidy dark hair. He set the candle down on the hall table as he reached into a closet, pulling out a long coat and a scarf, which he hurriedly pulled on. 

_He is sneaking out_ , David realised, his lips lifting into a grin. Waiting until Killian picked up his candle once more and disappeared through a door, he descended the last few stairs, and stepped down onto the cool marble tile of the front hall. He held back the slight hiss as his bare skin touched the icy floor, and wished again that he had thought about dressing up _warmer_ for his adventure. _Something to remember for next time._ Still curious, he followed after the other boy, being careful to listen out for telltale sounds that someone was coming in his direction. They were heading towards the rear of the house, he realised, meaning Killian probably intended to sneak out the back door rather than risk leaving via the front – and the back door would take him out closer to the lake, he mused, certain that the boathouse was the boy's intended destination. 

Stepping down into the kitchen, he winced again as his feet met the cold stone floor. Pushing it from his mind as best he could, he hurried along through the room, aiming for the door that opened out into the grounds behind the house. Killian must have already slipped out into the night, as there was no sign of him in the dark kitchen, but David dared not click on his torch to get a better look. He stepped up onto the thin rug that sat in front of the door, sighing in relief as the fabric provided a scrap of warmth, at least in comparison to the cold stone. 

He pressed his face to the window of the door, squinting out to try and spot the shape of a boy hurrying down the path, but he could see nothing in the darkness. Not even the light of the moon stretched far enough to illuminate the world beyond the window. A little disappointed, David turned from the window- 

-and came face to face with a pair of sharp blue eyes widened in surprise, set in a youthful face illuminated by the wavering amber glow of the candle. David felt his heart _stutter_ in his chest, his stomach instantly twisting itself into a knot in panic, his mouth going bone dry as his hand tightened around his torch. _You idiot, David! You shouldn't have assumed he had already left!_ Killian clutched a set of keys in his other hand, and David kicked himself mentally for not realising there hadn't been enough time for the other boy to have opened the door and disappeared into the night before he'd entered the kitchen. 

The silence stretched on for what felt like forever, both boys staring each other down, neither knowing what to do or say. David had horrible images of being brought before the boy's father, of being carried away by police for breaking and entering – and then of being locked away in an asylum when he tried to explain he was from the future. _I am never going to see my mother again_. 

"Who the hell are you?" Killian spoke at last, his lilting voice hushed to a mere whisper. "How did you get in here? Speak quickly, or my fist will make friends with your face!" Though his words rang with aggressive confidence, his hands quivered, and he sent a quick, nervous glance over his shoulder. 

"I'm David," he blurted out, his voice as soft as Killian's. He held up both hands, wishing he'd thought to tuck his torch into the pocket of his plaid pyjama pants. "I'm not here to hurt you. Or steal. Or-," he was rambling, he knew, out of his fear and panic. Forcing himself to take a slow, deep breath, he tried again. "If you let me go, you won't see me again. I promise." _Please let me go home_. 

"Where did you come from?" Killian's sharp eyes dropped to look him up and down, dark brows knitting into a frown as he took in the plaid pants and t-shirt, the bare feet and the torch clutched in his hand. "What kind of clothing is this? And what is- what is _that_?" He gestured to the torch, and David scrambled quickly for an explanation. 

"If I told you that you were dreaming, would you believe it?" He tried for a laugh, though it came out _far_ too nervous. When Killian simply stared at him in response, he sighed. "Look, if I tell you, you'll think I'm crazy. Please, just… pretend you didn't see me?" 

"I should call for Father." Killian's eyes narrowed, and his hand tightened around the candle, but he made no other move. Through his fear, David managed a smile. _He can't call for his father, because he's not supposed to be out of bed. If he calls for someone, they'll know he was sneaking out, and he'll be in trouble_. 

"But you won't." His voice sounded braver than he felt, but he went with it, lifting his chin proudly. He caught the brief flicker of surprise in the other boy's eyes, and he fought back the grin threatening to cross his face. "Because then you'll be found out. You're sneaking out to the boathouse, aren't you?" 

"How did you-," a muscle twitched in Killian's jaw, and a hint of suspicion crept into his eyes now, too. "What does it matter if I am? I am allowed to go to the boathouse whenever I like." 

"Then why are you creeping around the house like a criminal? Maybe I should go and ask your father myself-," he would do no such thing, of course, but it had the desired effect. Killian's hand shot out, keys jangling with the movement, and he caught David's wrist in his grasp. The cool metal of the keys pressed against his skin, and he fought back a shiver. 

"Wait." Killian looked over his shoulder, and then he sighed, his shoulders heaving with the weight of the sound. "Okay. How about we make a deal, _David_? I will not call for someone, and you will not go to my father. I do not know who you are or how you got into our house, but you clearly know that I cannot report you without raising questions about what I was doing out of bed." There was a stubborn set to Killian's jaw that reminded David, oddly, of James. "If you go back to where you came from, I will say nothing of it – if you will also say nothing of my whereabouts. Do we have a deal?" 

"Of course." David nodded, trying not to let his relief show on his face. "This never happened, right?" When Killian nodded and stepped to one side, David inched around him, not wanting to break eye contact with him. "But, you know…" _What are you doing, David? Just go! Just walk away!_ "If you want your father to trust you, maybe sneaking out in the middle of the night isn't the right way to go about it?" Turning on his heel, he began striding across the stone floor towards the kitchen door, hoping Killian wouldn't change his mind. 

"My name is Killian," the voice stopped him at the door, and David turned to look back at him. In the glow of the candle flame, he caught the smile on the other boy's face. They held each other's gaze across the room for a moment longer, and then David stepped through the door, and hurried away. He took the stairs two at a time, losing some of his earlier caution in his haste to get back up to the top floor and the room that would take him _home_. He was halfway up the second staircase when he heard the sounds of boots upon carpet, and he lingered, a smile on his face as he watched a familiar wavering light creeping up from the ground floor. 

He didn't wait to see if it _was_ Killian returning to bed – he hurried up the last few steps and along the hallway, relying only on his adjusted eyesight to lead the way back to the door with the chipped panel. It was only when he finally stepped through into the room beyond that he realised he'd been holding his breath, and he let it out with a relieved sigh. _That could have gone a lot worse_. Not sparing a second look at the room, he turned and opened the door once more, praying that he would step out into George's house once more. 

When delightful _warmth_ hit him as soon as the door opened, he sighed happily. _Home_. Torch in hand, he hurried through the quiet, empty house, descending the stairs at a faster pace than he had ascended them. It was only as he reached the bottom that he realised he should probably have been more careful – the carpets in this time were not as thick, and didn't have the added layer of decorative rugs. He was halfway to his bedroom when the door to George's office opened, and he tensed, freezing in place. Thinking quickly, he tucked his torch into the back of his pants and dragged his fingers through his hair, as though he had been sleeping on it. As George stepped out into the hallway, David rubbed sleepily at his face, taking slow steps towards his bedroom door. 

"David?" He made a deliberate show of looking up in surprise, blinking in the light that spilled from the office doorway. "What are you doing up at this hour?" 

"I-," he waved a hand behind him idly, "-bathroom." He faked a yawn, hoping it was convincing enough. George glanced over David's shoulder, and then gave a nod. 

"Alright. Try to get back to sleep." As David inched closer to his door, keeping the wall at his back to conceal the torch, he nodded, his hand fumbling for the handle. George strode over, and for a moment David worried that he'd been caught out, but then his father merely ruffled his hair with what could pass for a _smile_ , and then ducked back into his office. Hurrying through his bedroom door, David fell back against it with a groan, fishing the torch out from his waistband. 

He crossed the room to drop onto his bed, rolling onto his back to once again stare up at the ceiling. His heart was still pounding from his experience in the _other_ house, at being caught sneaking around by someone from the _past_. He had to be more careful if he was going to go back. _Was_ he going to go back? Of course. He _had_ to. An opportunity had presented itself to him, and he would be a fool to ignore it after one tiny hiccup. Killian wouldn't be able to tell anyone what he'd seen without giving himself up, and they'd made a deal not to speak of it. Something told him Killian was a boy of honour, and wouldn't go back on his word. 

Lying in the dark, unable to sleep, David began wondering about the boy and his family, about the house they lived in, and what _time_ they were from. At the first chance he got, he was going to research the house – he would have to ask Michaels or Old William about the family that used to own it to get a family name. He doubted searching for 'Killian' would get him anywhere, and the boy hadn't given him a surname. Restless, David sat up in bed and reached for his notebook and pen, and scribbled down more notes under the light of his torch. 

They were obviously a sailing family – the conversation he'd overheard suggested as much, and the painted sailboats on the name plaques were another clue. Then there was the rigging and the ships wheel in the room on the top floor, and the lake and boathouse. The lilt to their voices suggested a certain heritage, and he could easily research Killian's name to find a potential origin. They had to be a wealthy family to own an estate as large as this one – especially if it was even larger back then – so that was something to note, too. 

By the time he was finished with his notes, David's eyes were beginning to sting, and so he set the notebook and pen aside, clicked off his torch, and settled once more beneath the sheets. Burying himself in the warmth of his bed, his mind racing with thoughts of the boy with the sharp blue eyes, he soon drifted off into sleep, and into dreams of racing through the grounds at night, and of sailing upon the lake under the light of the moon.


End file.
